


Mulligan

by nutmeag83



Series: What If [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Do-Over, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Retirement, Retirementlock, Science Fiction, shades of San Junipero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-19 20:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12417375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: mul·li·gan: noun; (in informal golf) an extra stroke allowed after a poor shot, not counted on the scorecard.Sherlock and John have reunited in retirement, but there are consequences to waiting so long. Luckily the 2050s offer technological advances that weren't available in the 2010s, when everything went so wrong. So what happens when you're out of time and filled with "what ifs"? You try for a do-over. Can they do better a second time around?





	1. Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I set out to tell before "Forgiveness" took over. It came about from reading [_Once Upon a Memory_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12073629), which was lovely, but just too bittersweet for me, the fluffmeister. So I’m doing a bit of a fusion of sorts between that story and “San Junipero” (the infamous _Black Mirror_ episode). Neither the story nor the episode are required for you to read this, though I do highly recommend both.
> 
> Not beta’d or Brit-picked. Don’t hate me.

Sherlock was unable to sleep. This was nothing new. He’d spent most of his life fighting his brain. He was almost fifty by the time he won that battle, supposedly for good, but old age and a change in his life had his thoughts fighting for dominance over sleep once again. He didn’t mind it so much now. It left him more time to catalogue every bit of John that he could. Though they had been reunited for almost two year now, and sharing a bed for most of it, Sherlock felt that he still did not know nearly enough about John.

Again, this was nothing new. The invalided army doctor had turned Sherlock’s head from the start. He was a ball of contradiction—a healer and a soldier, a lover and a fighter, short but powerful, stoic but loving. And after over forty years apart, John had returned to his life. More accurately, he had let Sherlock storm back into his life without a fuss. He had, in fact, had the opposite of a fuss. After thirty minutes of awkwardness and heartfelt confessions, they had slid back into each other’s lives like perfectly fitting puzzle pieces.

Sherlock had wanted to know everything about John’s life, and they’d spent the time since their reunion telling stories and laughing over old memories. John had even been gracious enough to share his family with Sherlock. Rosie, her husband Kyle, and their twin girls Mina and Jamie had quickly enveloped Sherlock within their lives, so much like John had.

They hadn’t batted an eye when John had announced they’d share a room at the cottage they had rented during the first holiday spent together, and they had treated Sherlock like another grandfather to the twins ever since. He was included in all update emails, birthday celebrations, and holidays to the beach. The twins clamored for stories from “Pop,” as Sherlock quickly was named, and “Grandad” (John, of course) alike. Rosie hugged him tight every time she saw him, and whispered how glad she was that he was there.

It had been overwhelming, but in a good way. It was what he’d always wanted, ever since he first held a tiny Rosie over forty years before. He had longed for it in the years after John had left Sherlock in hospital after the Culverton Smith case. And now here he was, in their lives again. He was happy, content, filled with love. It was what he wanted, what he’d finally decided he deserved to ask for. And John—amazing, lovely, forgiving John—had taken him back with nary an argument. Instead, they argued over what film to watch or where to go out for their anniversary. (Was it really only two weeks away? Had it been two years already since Sherlock finally had the guts to get in touch?)

And yet… And yet. They had made a pact not to get stuck in what ifs or why nots. They had vowed to enjoy what they had now, and not wallow in what they had missed out on. They tried, but it was hard. There was so much wasted time. They had both gone on to have mostly fulfilled lives, but each had always felt the hole where the other should have been. Yes, they had made bad decisions, but they hadn’t had a lot of choice. Life had thrown some real shit at them when they had only just begun their life together. They hadn’t had the chance to breathe, to try out romance, to love each other fully and in the open.

Sherlock thought too often about how their lives could’ve been different. What if he hadn’t hidden his being alive from John? What if John hadn’t been deep in the closet? What if Mycroft had done his fucking job and kept Moriarty locked up? What if either of them had stepped up after Sherlock’s return, and the whole Mary debacle had been avoided (impossible thought, for without Mary, there would have been no Rosie)? Was there a parallel universe where events had converged so that John and Sherlock had got their happily ever after far earlier?

Sherlock forced his thoughts away. Within those questions lay madness and bitterness, something he couldn’t afford at the age of eighty-three. He scooted closer to John so that he could gently lay an arm over John’s stomach and tuck his chin in between John’s shoulder and ear. They were happy now. It would be enough.

Sleep was slow to come, but eventually it did.

\---

The week after their second anniversary brought both good and bad news. The good news—though they didn’t know it to be such as the time—started with rumors. Sherlock and John had heard of the technology before. A company had developed a way to allow minds to enter a virtual reality of sorts, a way to live out fantasies, whether because they were physically impossible (being able to fly with no mechanical accoutrements) or because someone just wanted to do something with no consequences (kiss a beautiful person). However, the technology was still young and had kinks to be worked out. One of the biggest was that it was so taxing on both the mind and the body that people died soon after use. But for the technology to go forward, they needed testers, which was forbidden given the fatal nature of the technology.

However, physician-assisted suicide (voluntary euthanasia, or VE as they were now calling it) had finally been legalized in the UK. It was only a matter of time before the company that had created the technology found a loophole that allowed people close to death or above a certain age to assent to beta testing the product.

So when scuttlebutt said that a representative from ALI Tech would be coming to talk to the residents about participating, Sherlock wasn’t that surprised. He was interested in the technology, of course, but he didn’t give it much of a thought since he was still too young for the eighty-six-year-old age limit, and both he and John were healthy and therefore had no need to choose an early death. Neither was ready give up what they finally had together just for a fake superhero/going to the moon/meeting a famous actor experience that would be over in an hour and would kill them.

Sherlock’s way of thinking changed the day before the rep was to arrive. Rather, John forced him to at least consider the possibility.

“These physicals are tedious,” Sherlock complained as they returned to their rooms after said tedious physical. “We’re old. Nothing works right. I don’t need a machine or a doctor to tell me that.”

John chuckled, then sighed as he sat on the sofa in their lounge. They had upgraded to a couple’s flat a few months after Sherlock had moved to the community, and they now had a kitchen/lounge area, and a separate bedroom with an en suite. It wasn’t Baker Street, but John was the best home in the world, so it didn’t really matter to Sherlock where they parked their arses, as long as they were together.

Sherlock dropped down next to John and put his head on John’s shoulder. John put his head, in turn, on Sherlock’s head. It wasn’t a comfortable position, but they could hold it for a few minutes, and Sherlock needed that comfort after being poked and prodded.

Before he could get into high dudgeon, however, Sherlock’s mobile beeped. When he saw their doctor’s contact information on the screen, he knew. He didn’t know exactly, but he knew their luck had just run out. They’d had two lovely years together. He was grateful for that.

He answered the call on speaker. He didn’t want to hear it alone. John glanced at him with brows furrowed, but turned to the phone to listen to the call.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked.

“Mr. Holmes, this is–”

“Yes, yes, this is Dr. Costas.” With nerves came his acerbity. He didn’t want to drag this out.

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee, obviously cottoning on that something bad was about to happen.

“Of course. Sir, I’d like you to come in tomorrow morning if possible–”

“Just tell me now, doctor. I don’t need a face-to-face for bad news.” John’s hand tightened, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was a warning to be nice or a jolt of fear that caused it. He put his own hand over John’s and laced their fingers together. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that John was here.

“Mr. Holmes, I can’t just–”

“He asked you to tell him now. Please honor his wishes,” John cut in sharply. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“Dr. Watson? Now I definitely can’t–”

“He’s my partner. It’s in our paperwork. I consent to both his hearing the news and to you giving it over the phone. Now get on with it.”

Dr. Costas cleared her throat. “Right. Yes. Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to inform you that we’ve found cancer. It has, unfortunately, metastasized. We can’t– Surgery isn’t– There are no viable options to fight it long-term, not at your age or at this stage. If we had caught it a year ago, maybe, but now…”

John’s hand gripped tighter, and Sherlock heard him pull in a choked breath. Really? Was it that surprising, given his youthful (and not so youthful) vices of cigarettes and drugs? He was bound to die by one of their hands. The fact that he’d made it this long surprised him more.

Still, it wasn’t a happy prospect. The end would probably be swift and painful. He had noticed increased fatigue and pain pretty much everywhere, but he had chalked it up to old age. Along with the effects of the illness, his time with John would be cut short. That thought hurt more. He had only just found John again, they had only begun their lives together. Why did life hate them so much? What had they done to deserve this?

Dr. Costas spoke further, but Sherlock didn’t pay much attention. He knew what she was saying—mostly platitudes, a few weak attempts at options to fight it, an urging to get his affairs in order.

John must have thought the same, because he interrupted with a “Thank you, doctor. We’ll be in touch,” then ended the call.

“It’s not exactly that surprising,” Sherlock said weakly, sinking back into the sofa.

John joined him with a sigh. “No, I suppose not. But I still had hoped…”

“Yeah.”

“So I guess we’ll be going to that ALI rep’s pitch, huh? I’m of age, and you’re officially dying.”

Sherlock looked at John in surprise. “I don’t want to leave you any earlier than necessary.”

“And I’d rather avoid that as well, but you know living through it won’t be easy. I don’t want you to go through that, and I don’t want to watch it or live without you again. I refuse to, actually.”

“So what, we go out with a vacation to the moon? Dull.”

John sat up, indignation written in his furrowed brows and downturned mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe we can solve one last case or watch the twins grow up. I’d rather go on my own schedule than wait on nature’s. You can’t tell me you don’t want total control either.”

Sherlock brought their joined hands to his lips in hopes of calming John down a bit while he considered the idea. John raised a good point. Sherlock didn’t like ceding control to anyone, least of all mother nature, but was VE via VR really the way to go? Wouldn’t some nice, relaxing drugs that put him into a forever sleep a better option?

John put his free hand on Sherlock’s face, his thumb caressing Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock would never not love John touching him so sweetly. Why did the world hate them?

“Just think about it, okay? We’ll go listen to the pitch, and if there’s some crazy adventure that sounds worth it, we’ll do it. Otherwise, we’ll go another way.”

“Fine. But I’m only considering it because I love you. If anyone else asked, it would be a straight no.”

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock’s nose, his eyes, and then his mouth. Then he sighed. “Why does the world hate us so much?”

Sherlock put his arms around his partner and held him tight. “Just lucky, I guess.”

\---

They went to the pitch, and the “adventures” were as inane as expected (Take a trip to the moon! Become a character in your favorite book/movie/video game! Sky dive from space!), but something woke inside Sherlock. It was a level of curiosity and challenge that he hadn’t had in at least fifteen years. Though the technology was in its infancy, there should have been a way to create more detailed and involved VR worlds than were currently available. He wasn’t sure if they just weren’t offered since that would mean more time and money spent on people who would die within a week of using the technology, or if no one had thought to try.

Time Sherlock did not have—the prognosis was three months if they didn’t treat it, up to a year if they did—but money he did. And he knew people. If he invested in the company with the stipulation that they put together a team to enhance what they had now, ALI surely wouldn’t turn them down. He was offering his money and his mind to speed up something they surely already wanted to eventually achieve. And he knew John would be on board.

“If I could find a way for us to share a fantasy, like a more immersive version of the low-level VR games they already have, would you be willing?” he asked John a week later.

John frowned. “Like going on a final case together? I thought the tech didn’t allow shared fantasies yet.”

“It doesn’t. But I could probably speed up the research on that a bit. Invest in a team to work solely on that.”

“That won’t be cheap, Sherlock.”

“What else am I going to do with my money? I am happy to give what’s left to Rosie and her brood, of course, but I inherited quite a bit from both my parents and Mycroft, and I did well for myself with my work. I want it to go to something I can benefit from—and you, obviously.”

John shrugged. “What do you have in mind? A case?”

“Maybe. Or…” Sherlock paused. It was a bit of a gamble, going there. He didn’t want John to feel he regretted too much, or felt their little bit of time together hadn’t been worth it. And they had made that pact. But still, he had to try. They deserved some happiness. “I was thinking that– I know we said we wouldn’t wallow–” He took a deep breath. “I want us to relive our lives.” He blurted out, forcing himself to look John in the eye.

John’s face froze with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth slightly open. After a short time, he tilted his head and his eyebrows came down. “Is that even possible?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Who knows. I need to talk to people. But I wanted your consent first. I won’t go forward if you don’t want to. We could go a more traditional route. We could–”

“Yes.”

“It might not w–”

“Yes.”

“It might not be a whole life. They may only be able to put together a do-over of our first years to–”

“Goddamnit, I love you, you berk. If I can spend even just a few hours being young and loving you out loud, I want it. So yes, to whatever we can get.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, you idiot.” John, grin firmly in place, swooped in for a kiss.

\---

ALI, of course, agreed to the private research. If it panned out, it would push the project ahead by years. Sherlock couldn’t do much in stopping the fatalities, but he could at least get the back-end up and running so that it would be in place by the time that “little kink” had been straightened.

It only took a few months once a team was gathered. He brought in the top VR game builders, neurologists, psychologists, AI specialists, fiction writers, even a few hackers. So much of what they needed was already a reality, they just needed to coalesce the brains on one idea to make it work for their purposes.

Sherlock, not knowing how long it would take, had gone ahead with the cancer treatments. They left him alternately ill and invigorated, and yet John managed to weather the highs and the lows with his usual stubborn stoicism. Between the tears and the vomiting, they spent as much time with Rosie, Kyle, and the twins as they could. They went on short holidays whenever possible. They had no idea how the VR would end up working, and they wanted to fill in as many gaps as they could, just in case.

Finally, five months after Sherlock and John first discussed it, everything was ready. The family converged one last time on their favorite seaside cottage and had an amazing week together. Not wanting to taint the memories of the cottage for everyone, John and Sherlock chose their rooms at the assisted living community for the VR session. The whole thing would only take a couple of hours in real time, but, if everything went as the team predicted, John and Sherlock would feel an entire lifetime pass at normal speed.

Of course, who knew what would really happen. This version was so far untested, but the version all other beta testers used seemed to support the idea that time passed “normally” for the user. A bigger unknown was how it would affect their memories. They could come out of it feeling like they’d been to a very long film, or it could overwrite their memories and they could think the whole thing had actually happened. Sherlock and John decided they didn’t care either way. Any chance they would have to be young and in love and to right so many wrongs was enough.

There had been some hesitation in worrying what their family would think if the latter occurred, but Rosie put paid to that early on. “We’ve had an entire lifetime with Dad, and two amazing years with you, Sherlock. We’ve seen how much this short time has meant to you both, and if there’s a way to stretch that out, we want that for you.”

“But we could forget you. Your _own father_ could forget you.”

Rosie had shaken her head at Sherlock’s protestations. “Maybe on the surface, but on some level, you would remember. We already know you both love us and wish us happiness. Now let us allow the same for you.” With those words and one of Rosie’s lovely hugs, Sherlock had never felt more like a parent than in that moment. The pride he had so longed to have for Rosie had never been greater.

And now was the moment of reckoning. They had said their goodbyes, just in case their memories were erased or they went into comas right after. They didn’t want the girls (or Rosie or Kyle for that matter) to watch, so after far too many (and too few) hugs, their family left John and Sherlock with the small team who would administer the program and monitor their vitals.

They got comfortable on their bed, and the doctor applied small discs to each temple and monitors to their index fingers. The tech guy looked at them nervously.

“We’re not sure where along the timeline you’ll be entering, or what the situation will be,” he said, tapping quickly on his tablet as he set things up. “The AI will ultimately decide where to place you, based on your thoughts and memories once you’re under. We’ve applied the limitations to make sure things don’t get too crazy, but–”

“We’ll be fine, Evan,” Sherlock cut in softly. “I’ve monitored the team’s work. You’ve covered all conceivable eventualities. The tech itself has been used before. Don’t worry.”

The young man nodded, but his face still scrunched up in worry. He took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and felt an answering squeeze. _Once more unto the breach_ , he had time to think, before he was pulled under.


	2. New Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John enter their experimental VR world. What awaits them, and can they change the events that snowballed the last time around?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a Mary lover (except for her as a worthy adversary), but given the story I’m telling, I made a choice to make her the person we saw in TEH. Remember that John and Sherlock are somewhat in charge of the experience they are having. Based on the story we got on the BBC screen (my problems with S4 aside), Sherlock really enjoyed Mary as a person and a friend. He was upset when she makes bad choices, and he was devastated by her death. So in this VR experience, he’s sort of leading how the VR program treats her. Thus why she’s being so sweet and selfless to John. John has his niggling doubts that come from his real experiences with her, and will manage to make a few choices here and there.
> 
> I also struggled with whether to bring a baby into this story. Again, given the actual story I’m trying to correct and given the men they are at the end of S4 and the life John lived after, my choices make sense to me. They do not reflect my beliefs on how Moftiss should have told S4.

Sherlock stood outside Baker Street. It was dark and quiet on the street. A single light glowed from the sitting room window above. John was home. Would he let Sherlock back in, or would Sherlock find himself bunking with Mycroft for the foreseeable future?

His hands grappled uselessly at his coat sleeves. He was still getting used to its weight again, after almost two years of disguises and running. Some days it felt like centuries since he had last been in London, and other days it felt like he had only just left—very reluctantly, but still he had left. He’d had no choice. John _couldn’t_ die. Sherlock couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

He had argued with Mycroft on keeping the secret. It wasn’t fair to John. _But is it fair to make him wait and worry, when you could actually die while dismantling Moriarty’s web?_ Mycroft had volleyed back. Two hours of arguing later, Mycroft had won, and Sherlock had left alone, already aching for the city and the man he loved that he was leaving behind.

Something inside himself told him that John needed to know. If he hadn’t been worried for both his safety and John’s, he would’ve snuck over to Baker Street to tell John anyway, but the idea of someone seeing him and shooting John made the plan too untenable. And Mycroft hadn’t left him alone long enough to even sneak a note to the homeless network to pass along to John.

The nagging voice kept up its insistence for the next twenty-one months. Sherlock swore it had saved his life on a few occasions. He had definitely avoided capture in Serbia because of that voice. And now, finally, he was back where he belonged. Almost. If John turned him away, he didn’t know what he’d do. It was only the thought of returning to Baker Street that had kept Sherlock going.

The voice had finally settled with Sherlock’s return. Mostly. He had been at a loss as to how to go about his reveal to John, first thinking of dressing like a homeless man and bumping into John on the street, but the voice told him that was cruel. John wouldn’t like having been lied to. Sherlock needed to play this as honestly as possible. He might even go so far as to reveal his feelings to his friend, but he’d play that one by ear. First, he’d need to get John to listen.

\---

John looked at the clock. Nearing bedtime, but not quite. He had sent Mary home earlier, asking for a quiet night to himself. He was doing much better since Mary had come into his life. He wasn’t the John that had been part of Sherlock and John, but he was better than he’d been right after Sherlock’s death. He got up and went to work. He went out with acquaintances. He smiled at baristas and joked with the wait staff at Speedy’s. He was bored out of his mind, but he was surviving.

And Mary was…good. She was funny and intelligent. In some ways she reminded him of Sherlock. The way she’d tease him or share a private joke. The way she did something utterly ridiculous just to get a laugh out of him. If something about her seemed slightly wrong, it was only that she wasn’t Sherlock, no one could be but the man himself. But she was good for John. She made him content with life.

But tonight, John needed to be alone. He had woken melancholy, and things hadn’t improved throughout the day. A voice in his head too often told him that things should be different, that he could be happy, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. Perhaps it was just that Sherlock wasn’t there, and without him, life wasn’t right.

So he poured one for his old friend and pulled up his blog to go back through it. He’d been adding to it for the last year—old cases that he’d never put up, musings about their life in general, pictures he’d found on his phone. For once, John didn’t feel like he was forced to write out his feelings. They just came out naturally. He was even contemplating a book, after being contacted recently by a publisher. He would do anything he could to keep Sherlock’s memory alive.

He had just set his empty glass in the kitchen sink when he heard the downstairs door open. John immediately tensed. Mrs. Hudson was in bed, and no one else had a key. He’d had no reason to stay alert after Sherlock’s death, but his instincts had never really left him. A break in? Some old enemy of Sherlock’s who wanted to get revenge the only way they could?

John grabbed the poker from the fireplace and went to stand quietly by the door, hoping the intruder would come through the sitting room door rather than the kitchen entrance. He tensed when he heard an uncertain chuckle.

“John,” said a voice from his past, hesitantly. “Would you please put down the weapon? I’d rather not be conked on the head my first day home."

John shook his head. No. There was no way. Sherlock was _dead_. It was a trick. Someone trying to get him to drop his guard. He held the poker higher.

“John, if you don’t put down your weapon, I’ll go downstairs and tell Mrs. Hudson about the incident with Jenny Ames in fifth form. And I’ll text Lestrade about your last night at uni.”

The poker dropped a bit. Only Sherlock knew about those events. Well, Sherlock and the people involved in said events. John had shared them one night after they’d had a few drinks. But Sherlock was dead. John had watched him fall, seen his lifeless body on the pavement, gone to his funeral, lived in this lonely flat for almost two years without the man.

The tremor that had become his companion again after Sherlock had died shook the poker. John tightened his grip to halt it, but lowered the DIY weapon. Before he could find the words to say, Sherlock spoke again through the closed door.

“I know you’re angry. You have _every_ right. I kept a very important truth from you. It was wrong of me to do so, I hoped– I wanted– Can I have just five minutes of your time? Can I see you, just once? Then you can throw me out on my arse, and I’ll never bother you again. I promise.”

There was something in his voice that made John pause his rising anger. And that damned mental voice was back, telling him he should give Sherlock a chance. After a few minutes of internal deliberation, John leaned the poker against the wall behind him and opened the door.

John instantly knew it wasn’t a hallucination. Sherlock looked far too worn and skinny for his own fantasies. His mouth was pulled tight and his eyes were downcast, as if he was afraid of what John would do. But Sherlock didn’t care about what other people thought or did. He did his own thing, and sod all the consequences. Or so John had thought.

But this was the face of a man who knew exactly what he’d done and who knew the consequences mattered greatly. With a clench of his fist and a slight nod, John backed up to let his supposedly deceased friend in the room.

They settled automatically in their old chairs. Sherlock kept his coat on and sat on the edge of his seat. John settled back into his, but his fingers chose to draw shapes on the chair’s arm, rather than lay quietly. Neither looked at the other for a time.

John wanted to. _Oh,_ how he did. He wanted to drink in the sight of the man he loved after almost two years of being denied it. But he couldn’t. He was afraid that if he looked, he’d never stop. He wanted to re-memorize the lines of that beloved face, find the new ones, and imprint it all on his mind, so that he’d never wake up in a cold sweat again, panicking that he couldn’t remember the exact shade of Sherlock’s eyes in the morning light of Baker Street. He wanted to run his fingers along that damned coat, read it like Braille. He wanted to bury his nose into the crook of that long neck and burn the scent into his brain so he could never again forget it.

And he couldn’t do those things. It wasn’t what friends did, and that’s all Sherlock and John were—rather, all they had been. So he didn’t look.

After an age, John heard the inhale that meant Sherlock was about to lay it all out. Good. If the silence lasted much longer, John wasn’t sure that he could stop himself from standing up and burrowing himself into Sherlock’s coat and staying there forever. He steeled himself for the elaborate explanations, for the arrogance, for the posturing.

“John, leaving you alone was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I could explain my reasons, but they won’t help. Not now. Now, all I can say is I’m sorry. I’m so–” Sherlock took a ragged breath. John refused to look up. “John, I’m so _very_ sorry. I should have found a way. I should have exhausted all avenues. I should have made my _stupid_ brain work harder. I should have told you. So many times I’ve nearly been in contact, but–” Another choked breath. “You deserved better. You were kind enough to be my friend, and I let you down.”

John looked up at that last bit, but Sherlock was looking down at his knees. This wasn’t at all what John had expected. This was not the Sherlock who had left two years before. Was it in act? Sherlock was a remarkable actor. John had learned the tells during their time together, and he searched for them now, but couldn’t see them. Either Sherlock had got better, or he was telling the truth.

“Why?” he asked on a breath.

“You would have died if I hadn’t jumped—you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Then I was forced into hiding until Moriarty’s web was dismantled. I helped with bits of that, along with MI6. I wanted you with me. I _needed_ you, but Mycroft said you couldn’t disappear as well, that it would be suspicious. And you had to appear in mourning, and Mycroft has much less confidence in your acting abilities than I do. I gave up after a few months of fighting with him.”

John huffed at the acting bit. Despite the posturing and talk of John being an idiot, Sherlock had always seen John as better than he actually was. He always thought John understood more than he did. It was flattering, but it also made John feel like he was letting Sherlock down when he couldn’t do all that Sherlock expected him to.

But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that Sherlock had lied to John. John had grieved for almost two years because of the man in front of him. Life had been dark for a time after, and it was only because of Mary that he was doing as well as he was.

John had no idea how to react. He wanted to punch the man, of course, but violence was stupid and wouldn’t solve anything. He was better than that. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Sherlock looked up briefly, then away again. “Only if you’re having something.”

Thinking that a little liquid courage wouldn’t go amiss, John went to the kitchen to pour them each a drink. When he returned, Sherlock was standing in front of the windows, looking down at the quiet night street. He must have been deep in thought, because he startled a bit when John walked up next to him. John only barely managed to catch a tear sliding down Sherlock’s cheek before the other man was busy setting his glass down and removing his coat. By the time he’d hung it up and returned to his chair, his face had cleared.

At that moment, John knew he’d forgive Sherlock. Sherlock could turn on the tears, but only so that others could see them. Maybe it was an act, maybe _he_ knew that John knew how he played the tears, and he was just pretending to hide them. But Sherlock seemed to be going through an awful lot of trouble just to get John to forgive him. And actually, he hadn’t even asked for forgiveness. He’d said sorry, that John deserved better, but he hadn’t asked to be forgiven.

John was shite at feelings. He hated talking about them. Harry’s drinking was only partially the reason they didn’t get on. John’s inability to form meaningful, adult relationships was the other. But John had formed such a relationship with Sherlock. They’d had each other’s backs. They understood each other. They made each other laugh. But they didn’t talk about it. And now John recalled all those nights he’d lain awake in bed, wondering how he could’ve done things differently. He hadn’t truly understood his feelings for Sherlock until after his death; he had willfully ignored them, too deep in the closet to even admit them to himself. It had taken Sherlock’s death to see them for what they were. And during all of those sleepless nights, he’d wished he’d had just five more minutes with his best friend so he could be honest for once in his life.

Now his wish had come true. He had five minutes. He had many more minutes than that, if he wanted. John had asked Sherlock not to be dead, and here Sherlock was. But could John confess, now that the moment was here?

“Missed you so much,” he admitted into his whiskey tumbler. “I’d had this crazy, action-packed life, and then you were just gone. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“I’m sor–”

“I know, Sherlock. Let me talk.” Sherlock nodded, eyes downcast, and John continued. “It hasn’t been easy, the last few years. I had to learn to live life again, just like when I first came back from Afghanistan. I went through jobs like people go through underwear. I hid away from everyone. I would’ve moved out of Baker Street if a very insistent voice in my head hadn’t demanded I stay. I couldn’t leave Mrs. Hudson alone. She was one of the things that kept me going in the early days. Your death hit her hard, too, of course. But she’s a tough old broad, and she came through with more composure than I did. But we propped each other up, as best we could, those first few months.”

John sighed and looked at Sherlock until Sherlock raised his own eyes. “I spent so long thinking of what I would say if I had just five more minutes with you. Everything from a punch in the face to listing off the ways you ruined my life to just laughing it off and letting things go back to normal. But what most came to mind was that there was no way I couldn’t forgive you. You say you needed me during your time away? Well I needed you too. I needed you to kick me out of my lethargy, to tell me to hurry up and grab my gun, to laugh with me over stolen ashtrays, to read the morning paper with. I–” A beep from his mobile interrupted him. Damn it.

\---

Sherlock’s heart pounded. Was John really going to forgive him? Could they work their way out of this mess Sherlock had created and find a way to be happy again? To be together again? Though Sherlock’s greatest wish was for them to fall into each other’s arms and never let go, he knew he could be happy just being John’s friend again, to have a small place in John’s life. Sometimes it felt like they had been apart much longer than two years, that Sherlock knew the pain of having John hate him for a lifetime, that there was more riding on this than just eighteen months of friendship.

Before he could prepare himself for what John was going to say next, John’s phone beeped. John, always distracted when technology yelled at him, stopped his speech and glanced at his phone, before looking back at Sherlock and opening his mouth as if to continue his thoughts.

Suddenly, Sherlock wasn’t ready to hear what John was about to confess. He quirked an eyebrow. “Ignoring your texts, John?” he asked, feeling a bit of his old cheek as he teased John.

John shrugged. “It’s just Mary saying goodnight. I don’t always answer, so she won’t be worried if I don’t reply.” He looked like he was ready to get back into the conversation, but now Sherlock had another reason to stop John’s confession. Mycroft had made no mention of a Mary. Who was she? Hopefully some matronly old woman who worried about John.

“Mary?”

John closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. Finally, he replied quietly, “My, uh, girlfriend.”

How had Sherlock failed to notice this? He had noted the cleanliness of the flat, but chalked it up to his own detritus being put away (Given away? What _had_ happened to his things?). Sherlock took a moment to search out everything around the room that screamed girlfriend. There wasn’t much to find. No cardigan left behind, no cutsie knick knacks, no couple’s photos in silver frames. A book of French poetry lay on the desk (John couldn’t read French) and two tea cups were sat on the worktop in the kitchen, but otherwise, the place was void of tales of coupledom. A new girlfriend? One who was just as independent as John? A girlfriend on the way out? John did go through them so quickly.

John continued. “Yeah. We’ve been going out for a few months. She’s a nurse at my surgery. Was the first one to really get me to socialize after…after.” John frowned at the floor. “It’s been…good.”

Sherlock tilted his head. Was John’s reluctance just his usual inability to talk about relationships? Did he expect Sherlock to tease him, given Sherlock’s reaction to it during their entire friendship? Or was he not into her? But several months was a long time (for John), so it had to be somewhat serious. Or perhaps John usually had longer-lasting relationships, but with Sherlock accidentally ruining (read: somewhat intentionally sabotaging) them, they were much shorter lived than when John was left to his own devices. Before he could decide, John spoke up again.

“So, what I was saying before…”

But Sherlock couldn’t listen. He needed to think, to decide, to weigh his options. “I’m knackered. Think I’ll…” but where would he go? He really didn’t want to rely on Mycroft, and he was tired of inns. He just wanted his old bed and his old room back. He wanted John to forgive him, and for them to be happy together.

John’s eyes, having looked more open in the last few minutes than they had since Sherlock’s return, shuttered again. He put on a pleasantly bland face. “Right. Of course. Well, I’m afraid I’ve taken over your room, but we can throw some sheets on the bed upstairs. The room looks a bit like a jumble sale, but it’ll work for sleeping.”

John had taken his room? Of course, Sherlock was stupid for thinking he could come back and have things be exactly the same (that inner voice told him that it could have been much more different, and he should be grateful for how well things had gone so far). He should be happy he hadn’t been kicked out, that John hadn’t punched him or even yelled. Things had gone quite well, come to think of it. What had happened to John’s temper? It had caused many a row during their days as flatmates.

Too tired and pleasantly surprised at the evening’s events to think much on it, Sherlock nodded. “If you don’t mind?”

John looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Mind? Sherlock, it’s your flat too. I wouldn’t just kick you out in the middle of the night.”

The words stopped Sherlock. Maybe John really was more relieved than angry. Sherlock wasn’t sure why he’d been so certain John would lash out. Well, because John had lashed out before, he supposed. Without thinking, he said, “Yes, you would.”

John paused a moment, then laughed. “Well, you aren’t screeching on that violin, so I think I’ll let you stay.”

Sherlock smiled back. This felt right, their teasing. Could he have this again? He didn’t deserve it, but maybe John was a better man than him. In fact, he knew John was.

They grinned softly at one another for a few moments, then John stood up. “I’ll go and fetch your sheets.”

He headed for the airing cupboard as Sherlock tentatively picked his way up to the second story. The creak of the stairs was gloriously familiar, even if the circumstances for him heading up to the room were not. He was surprised upon entering the room to find it neatly stacked with boxes. With John’s comment about a jumble sale, he’d expected a catch-all for John’s things as he had spread out after Sherlock’s “death.” John’s old duvet was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, but there was plenty of room to move about.

“Not exactly the mess I was expecting,” Sherlock commented when John entered the room moments later.

“Oh, well. I guess I just meant that it wasn’t set up as a guest room. I mostly use it for storage.”

“I see that.”

John held up the stack of linens. “Help me make the bed?” he asked a bit awkwardly.

“Of course.”

They did so in silence, neither seeming to know what to say. Silences had rarely been uncomfortable between them, but now it was. There was so much that needed to be said, to be explained, to be talked through. Instead they let the empty air fill the room.

“I’ll just leave– Oh, do you have nightclothes? Or maybe you don’t wear– Do you need a toothbrush or… anything?” John fumbled helplessly, scratching the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

“Ah. No. I mean, yes. I mean, no I don’t have anything, and yes, if I could borrow…something.”

“Right. Well, I have spare toothbrushes from the dentist in the bathroom, and you can use my toothpaste. As for clothes…” John scanned a few boxes before landing on the one he wanted. He walked over and opened it up. “I’m afraid your sock index had to go, but I kept your things,” he said awkwardly.

Sherlock swung his gaze to John’s face. He had expected the boxes to be filled with John’s things, maybe a few pieces of Sherlock’s scientific equipment he didn’t know what to do with. But not Sherlock’s own socks and pants. And John apparently knew exactly what each box held, even though they weren’t labeled.

“Oh,” was Sherlock’s brilliant reply.

“I couldn’t,” John began. “I wasn’t ready–” He sighed. “I can’t promise not to be upset from time to time. I think I deserve that.”

“You d–”

“But,” John continued, “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you. So much. And I… I forgive you.” His face was still a bit wary, but he smiled at the end. A real smile, not that forced thing he sometimes used in social situations to avoid awkwardness.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve John. But he wasn’t strong enough to pretend he didn’t want it, that he hadn’t hoped for this very thing. They still had much to talk about, a lot of air that needed clearing, but for now, they were good. They would eventually be better.

\---

They settled into their old routine quickly. Mrs. Hudson was, of course, completely surprised at Sherlock’s return, as was Lestrade. Molly was just glad she didn’t have to hold in her secret anymore. John had been quite miffed to learn that she and Sherlock’s twenty-five closest ruffians had known about the ruse when he had not, but he was growing to accept that Sherlock really had wanted John in on the plan, and it was only Mycroft who had barred him from telling John. They talked about their time apart, they rehashed old cases, they had new ones. John spent less and less hours at the surgery or with Mary and more time with Sherlock.

It was a gradual process, the acceptance of what had happened. John needed time to think things through and understand why Sherlock did what he did and why he hadn’t had many options to begin with. But the more time they spent together, the more the hurt eased. And John couldn’t deny that he felt much more alive, and he saw the same change in Sherlock. They laughed more, yelled more (but in good way), enjoyed their quiet times together more.

John was like a moth and Sherlock the flame. He couldn’t stay away, even if he’d wanted to. Between the excitement of the cases and the pure joy of being with Sherlock again, he really had no choice. He tried to keep things going with Mary, but that didn’t work for long. The excitement alone would have been enough to draw him away from his girlfriend (it always had in the past), but when John added in his own rekindled romantic feelings for his old friend, Mary never stood a chance. John knew that even if he and Sherlock never moved past a platonic partnership, no one would ever compete with what John and Sherlock shared, and it was unfair of John to even try.

Mary was gracious enough. She understood. She had seen John grieve. They had never talked about it in so many words, but John had always suspected that Mary knew about John’s feelings for Sherlock. When John suggested that they break up, Mary just smiled sadly and said, “I knew this would happen sooner or later. I am sad, of course. You’re an amazing man that anyone would be lucky to have. Sherlock was just the one who managed to catch you.”

“I am sorry, Mary. I really didn’t mean to lead you on. I thought… I thought what we had was good. And it was. It’s just…”

“What you have with him is better. I know. We had some great times, John Watson. I am grateful for them.”

John nodded, unsure what to say. It had been so long since he’d had to break up with anyone (Sherlock usually did him the favor). Fortunately, Mary came to his rescue.

“Now, if you don’t mind getting back to your man so I can get on with my crying jag, I’d be immensely grateful.”

John paused where Mary was pushing him out of the room. “I am sorry, Mary. Is there anyone I can call?” This felt odd. For some reason, he expected her to be more tenacious, more possessive. Not that he was that great a catch, but something told him she would be unwilling to let him go so easily.

But Mary smiled and the feeling passed. “I’ll get Cath to come ‘round. We’ll watch bad rom-coms and drink far too much wine. Then I will proceed to spew vitriol about you, and she’ll tell me I’m better off without you. A grand time will be had.”

“If you’re sure…” John really wanted to get out the door, but felt he needed to at least try a bit.

“Really, John. Promise. Can I… can I call you in a few months, when we’ve had some space? Just to see how you are? I promise I won’t hang on like a limpet.”

John laughed, still feeling skeptical about Mary’s motives, but unable of thinking of a concrete reason to turn her down. “Of course.”

He spent the whole of the trip home both worried for Mary and relieved for himself.

Sherlock obviously knew the second John walked into the door what had happened. John supposed he’d let hints drop unknowingly, in the way he talked about Mary, in where his time was spent, in the way he tied his shoelaces for all he knew.

“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock said, not insincerely.

John shrugged. “It’s been coming for a while now. I think she was getting bored with me.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “Not possible.”

“Oh, it’s just you then?” John shot back teasingly.

“You do boring things because you cling too much to society’s expectations, but you are far from boring, John.”

“Ta,” John replied with an eyeroll. Sherlock never lacked for backhanded compliments. “So, anything on this evening? Juicy murders, intriguing burglaries?”

Sherlock sighed in frustration. “Nothing. The criminal classes fail to deliver yet again. I thought we might order in and watch one of your insipid films.

John peered at Sherlock lying on the sofa. “You feeling alright?”

Sherlock attempted a sneer, but it was half-arsed at best. “I’m perfectly fine. Just because I don’t feel the need to remove myself from this piece of furniture does not mean I’m ill.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Well it’s just that usually by this point in a no-case stretch, you’re pretty antsy. Climbing the walls. Yelling at me and Mrs. Hudson. Searching every nook and cranny for your smokes.” He stared down at Sherlock with his arms crossed. “Spill.”

“It’s nothing, John. Even I want a holiday–”

“Nope. Try again.”

“I’m working on a complex theory in my mind p–”

“Nuh uh.”

“Mrs. Hudson yelled at m–”

“Close, but not quite.”

“I thought you might need a shoulder.”

John frowned. Why would he need a– Oh.

“You think _she_ broke up with _me_ ,” he finally realized.

“You show all the same signs as you did when your many girlfriends broke up with you before.”

“So you were going to play the concerned friend and help me out, huh?” That didn’t quite jibe with the Sherlock from before. Granted, the man had shown obvious changes since his return. He was more considerate of John. He took a greater interest in John’s life. He was even keeping his kitchen experiments tidy. John was a little worried Sherlock would break if he kept it up much longer. He was only beginning to understand his friend’s motives.

“You don’t need to treat me with kid gloves, Sherlock,” John said, plopping down on the end of the sofa. Sherlock pulled up his feet just enough to allow him room. “I’m not going to throw you out of the flat, or suddenly Hulk out over your past mistakes. I was upset, yes, but I do understand why you made the choices you did. And your idiot brother played a heavy hand in the proceedings, so it’s not even all that much your fault. I’m ready to go back to the way things were before. Just the two of us against the rest of the world.”

Sherlock’s face softened and a smile teased at his lips. “Yeah? Just like the old days?”

Not if John had his way, but he was still too much of a coward to admit it, so he compromised. “Well, maybe not exactly the same. Less dating, more cases.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Retiring the Three Continents moniker already? You’ve changed.”

“Yeah, I have,” John agreed quietly. He ached to say more, to explain why he’d changed. His hands twitched with the effort of not taking Sherlock’s dear face in them and pulling him close for the kiss John had longed for during their time apart. But still he hesitated. He’d told himself he wouldn’t hesitate if ever given a second chance, but still he let his traitorous mouth change the subject. “Dinner?”

Sherlock looked down at his knees as his smile disappeared. “Whatever you’re in the mood for. This is about cheering you up, isn’t it?”

But John wasn’t sad. If anything, Sherlock was the one who was down now. That wouldn’t do. “I’ll cook,” John offered, getting up from the sofa and stretching. “Risotto or curry? I think we have all the ingredients.”

“You voluntarily cook now?” Sherlock asked, shock removing the sad look from his face.

John shrugged. “Hated eating alone, so Mrs. Hudson and I started eating together. But I felt bad with her cooking everything, and she wasn’t the takeaway fan you are, so I had her teach me a thing or two. I’m no master chef, but I can do more than the thing with the peas now.”

“Well then, I suppose I should let you showcase your new dishes. Risotto, please. I like yo– I like risotto.” Sherlock looked a bit confused, as if he’d meant to say something else. “I… haven’t had your risotto before, have I?”

John frowned. “I don’t think so. Mrs. Hudson always made it before.”

“Huh, that must be it. But I could swear…”

John backed into the kitchen, watching his friend puzzle things out. Odd for Sherlock not to remember something, though food was pretty low priority for him, so John supposed it wasn’t that odd. More odd that he remembered eating risotto at all.

\---

John hummed along with the music on the radio as he and Sherlock washed up after dinner. All throughout John cooking and them eating the meal, Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t new. He felt they had done this a hundred times already, despite takeaway being their go-to before. It felt so familiar that he had begun tidying up without a thought. It felt effortless to have John passing him soapy dishes to rinse and dry, their movements as comfortable as his favorite dressing gown.

John hadn’t questioned it either, and John _always_ questioned Sherlock helping out around the flat. Which meant he felt the familiarity as well, even if he wasn’t conscious of it like Sherlock was. The feeling had become a more frequent companion in the weeks since Sherlock’s return, only his continued occupation of the upstairs bedroom and Mary’s presence on the periphery of their shared life marring the feeling of familiarity. Sherlock had originally attributed it to them returning to the way life had been before he’d left, but now they were doing things they hadn’t done before—tidying the flat, cooking dinner, even their choice of films was different now, but felt so natural. They had both changed, but not in ways that felt wrong. It felt like old times, but not.

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. There was no logical reason that he’d almost said he loved John’s risotto when he’d never had it before. It made no sense why John had turned the television to a nature program on bees when Sherlock had never mentioned his secret fascination to John before. It was as if they were in that ridiculous film where people lived in a virtual reality, and déjà vu was nothing more than a glitch in the computer program.

Before he could consider things further, John pulled Sherlock from his thoughts as he started singing along with the music. Sherlock loved John’s singing. He wasn’t the best (nor the worst), but he always seemed as if he really enjoyed it. And though he claimed to be a rubbish dancer, his body always shimmied in time with the music.

“Just call my name, I’ll be there in a hurry. You don’t have to worry!” John sang, head bobbing along as he washed the final pot. “Cause baby, there ain’t…” His singing trickled off as the pot he held out wasn’t grabbed by Sherlock. He turned to look at Sherlock, eyebrows going up as he saw Sherlock’s grin. He returned the smile bemusedly. “What?”

That bit of familiarity returned, and Sherlock followed through with what felt innate. He leaned in and kissed John. The feeling of rightness disappeared the moment John stiffened, and Sherlock took a step back in panic. “Sorry. I don’t know– That was not good. I know. Sorry. Sorry.” He tried to back further away, but John, though still looking surprised, grabbed Sherlock’s bicep with his free hand to hold him in place.

“Again?” John whispered, eyes wide. “Please. I need… Pl–”

Sherlock swooped down, his body knowing exactly how to bend to best reach John’s lips, his neck tilting his head at the precise angle to meet John’s own head tilt. There was a thump as the pot slipped from John’s hand back into the sink. The sensation of John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair was more of a memory than a fantasy, though there was more passion behind it now than his mind had ever conjured before. Heartbeats quickened, muscles clenched, breathing increased. The familiarity left him as the kiss heated, and he was free to explore feelings and sensations he had never experienced with John before.

John seemed just as eager, hands roaming up and down, side to side, as if he needed to memorize every centimeter of Sherlock’s body in one go, as if this was his one chance to get it right. Their lips met again and again, touches both familiar and new, exploratory and long ago learned.

They finally broke away to allow a few moments for breath. Sherlock, allowed to have this at last, felt he couldn’t be more than a millimeter apart from John, and he leaned down until their foreheads touched.

John drew a shaky breath. “Why does this feel like half a lifetime in coming?” His hands continued to roam, up Sherlock’s neck and down his back, to the ends of Sherlock’s arms and around to his bum, mapping every plane available to him. “Is it just me?”

“No,” Sherlock answered softly. “I feel it too. Déjà vu, of a sort.”

“Kissing you is completely familiar, even though we’ve never done this. And…” John stopped. Sherlock could see him sorting his thoughts. “I feel I should savor this. Like it could disappear any minute.”

“Not possible,” Sherlock replied fiercely. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.” He frowned. What had made him say that? His decision to leave John behind two years before, obviously. What else could it be?

John nodded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “Never.”

It wasn’t until a few hours later, as they lay in the downstairs bed ( _their_ bed now), John dozing on Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock learned the dips and curves of John’s naked back with his hands, that Sherlock realized he didn’t feel the need to perform any great love declarations. He loved John, of course, and he knew John loved him, and they would say it to each other at some point in the near future, but it was the passion that had been missing before. The love had been there, quiet and innate and not at all absent from their daily lives. It felt like a final puzzle piece slotting into place, completing the picture that was Sherlock and John.

He didn’t understand it, but that inner voice told him to just accept it, enjoy it, and revel in it. For once, he turned his brain away from the niggling problem, and he slept.

\---

The time that followed was spent making up for lost time. There was plenty of sex, yes, but more than that, they just enjoyed being able to enjoy each other without censure, without fear. John was surprised to find he wasn’t afraid of being with a man in public—again it felt more natural than made sense—and so when Sherlock tentatively brushed his hand as they walked down the street, John gladly took it in his own and held tight. He had no problem when their friends found out that they were together. And even though they had decided against making a formal announcement, John knew that if any of the paps or their fans straight up asked them about their relationship, John would have no problem being honest.

He was allowed to love Sherlock out in the open, and it was the most freeing feeling he’d ever had. It felt a bit like the first time they’d run through London, John free of his cane and dark thoughts, Sherlock reveling in the challenge and happy to have a partner at his side.

Three months after their first kiss, things were going well. The cases were interesting, their life was good, they were happy. So John didn’t think much of it when Mary’s ID popped up on his phone one day. She had mentioned getting in touch down the road, and John expected nothing more than a catch-up phone call.

After the pleasantries were out of the way (“Yes, I did finally kiss that crazy man,” “I’ve got a new flat,” “Have you tried the new speakeasy near Hanover Square?”), Mary got quiet. John, quite capable of observing despite Sherlock’s many complaints to the contrary, felt the change right away.

“Alright?” he asked cautiously. He hoped this wasn’t some “let’s get back together” call.

“I wasn’t going to tell you at first. But when I decided to keep it, Cath told me you at least deserved to know. I’m not asking for help, know that up front. I just… wanted to tell you. So you know. Okay?”

“Okay…” John replied slowly. He had an idea of where this was headed. His stomach fluttered with nerves.

“That’s not to say you can’t be involved if you want to. Your choice. Completely. Just…”

“Mary, it’s okay. Just breathe, and say it. I won’t be angry.”

Mary gave a short, relieved chuckle. “People give you far too little credit for your ability to see things. You know that?”

“That’s what happens when you’re the ordinary person hanging around with geniuses.”

“Oh, John. You could never be ordinary. That’s why I chose you.” There was a hint of longing in her tone.

John smiled a little sadly. Mary hadn’t been that bad. Not at all. “Anyway,” he finally said. “Go on. Share the news.”

“I’m pregnant.”

Even though John knew what she was going to say, it still made his stomach jump a little. He was going to be a dad. Did he want to be a dad? Did he not want to be one? Could a child fit in his and Sherlock’s life? What would Sherlock think? Would Sherlock be upset if John did want to be a dad? His inner voice said no, but John tamped it down. Something to think about later. John had a brief vision of a tiny blond girl in pigtails doing summersaults in the park, but it flitted away after only a moment.

“I don’t know what to say, I’m afraid,” John admitted softly.

“Don’t say anything now. Or, don’t say anything ever, if you want. I’ll go on doing my thing, regardless. But, if you want to be involved, just say so. To any extent you want. Anything from the friend who visits once a year down to shared custody. Take your time, talk with Sherlock. I’ll be here if or when you want to give me an answer, okay?”

“You’re amazing, Mary.” John again felt that niggling confusion that Mary was behaving so selflessly, but that didn’t make sense. She had only ever been honest and kind to him, so why should he question her motives? He brushed the thought aside. There were more important things to worry about. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll… I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a chance to think it over.”

“Take your time,” Mary replied, the tension leaving her voice. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. Call me anytime you have questions or want to talk, okay?”

“You do the same. Bye, Mary.”

“Bye, John.”

John stared at the mobile after ending the call. His thoughts and feelings were a jumble. He was concerned for Mary’s health, of course, and the baby’s. He was worried over Sherlock’s reaction. He wondered what he wanted out of the situation. He had always thought he wanted to be a dad someday, but now he wondered if that was more societal pressure than his own wish. But under all of that, he was excited and happy. It felt right somehow. Like things were slotting into place.

He was still considering everything sometime later when Sherlock returned from wherever he’d hared off to that morning after complaining about John having to be a slave to the man. His posture stiffened as he slipped out of his coat, obviously noting something in John’s own stance.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting down next to John on the sofa as he removed his gloves and scarf. “Something happened. Are you okay? Is Mrs. Hudson okay?”

It was still strange to see Sherlock wearing his concern and love on his sleeve, and John wondered how he had hidden his feelings so well in the beginning. He was still cold with strangers, but with those he loved, his feelings tumbled out so easily.

John took a deep breath. “Mrs. Hudson is fine. I’m… fine. I think.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What happened, John?”

“I’m going–” Nope. No decisions made on that side yet. “Mary’s pregnant.”

“Ahhh.”

John chuckled. “Yeah.”

“And you’re unsure of what role you want to play?”

Sherlock understood him so well. Or maybe it was just obvious. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”

“And Mary is giving you free rein.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for a while.

A hand finally covered one of John’s. “I’ll support you, no matter what,” Sherlock said softly.

Somehow John had known Sherlock wouldn’t react poorly to the news, but it was still good to hear him say it. John put his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Good. Thank you. Yes, that’s… thanks.”

“Do you want to… talk about it?”

Again with Sherlock behaving so differently now. He didn’t like the talking, but he understood its function and why it was necessary in a relationship. He asked because he cared more about John’s comfort than his own. That selflessness was much smaller than pretending to kill yourself to save your friends, but it was somehow more significant for its _insignificance_. Grand gestures were perfectly in sync with Sherlock’s personality, but the smaller things were the ones that were harder won and more greatly appreciated.

“Not yet. I want to think first. But there is one thing…” John didn’t know how to explain why this news didn’t feel all that unexpected. “We’ve talked before about the familiarity of certain things. This is like that, isn’t it? I’m not all that surprised by the news.”

Sherlock gave John a small kiss on his temple. “Yeah. Me either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so not satisfied with this chapter, but I get writer's block any time I go near it, so I'm posting as is. Sorry if the emotional beats are lacking. I might eventually try to spiff it up a bit if I can get past the block. If not... oh well. 
> 
> Good news is that the final chapter is easy peasy.


	3. Happy Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory flash forward montage followed by a stunning reveal.

John decided to be a part of the child’s life, of course. Though he put some time into thinking about it, to Sherlock it seemed that John did so just because he thought he should, rather than because he had any qualms about being a father. Like he’d said, it felt expected and right somehow.

Preparing for the child went well enough. It was a bit odd with three parents involved (both Mary and John had insisted), but there was all the normal—Sherlock supposed anyway—talk of nursery colors, names, breathing techniques, etc. Sherlock threw himself into the planning as he did with anything he was passionate about. This was John’s child, after all, and she deserved the very best of everything. Within a month of the news, both Baker Street and Mary’s own flat had perfectly set up nurseries, and everyone had all been enrolled in the appropriate parenting and labor classes. Sherlock’s own research added a stack of books to the living rooms of both flats.

The baby came a week early, in the back of Mary’s car no less, Sherlock at the wheel while John coached Mary through the labor. Little Katherine Rose was, of course, loved by all instantly. Life was not easy with a newborn around the house, even part time, but with three parents on hand (plus godparents Cath and Molly and honorary Granny Hudson), they managed.

Life moved on. Sherlock got used to picking his way around baby toys and push chairs, as well as having much less attention from John than he was used to and also less time to work on cases. He found he didn’t mind so much, and felt that he was finally getting a previously unknown secret wish he’d had for decades in seeing John’s child grow and in being a part of her life.

They might have continued on in that way indefinitely—shared custody, a solid friendship with the mother of John’s child—were it not for a drunk driver who ran a light just as Mary was crossing the street after yoga class one evening. And just like that, two devastated men took on full custody of their little girl.

They discussed whether Sherlock should shut down the detective business, whether John should find more stable employment, whether they should move out to the suburbs. In the end, Sherlock cut back on Met cases and focused more on cases he could solve without leaving home and that were less dangerous. John found a clinic that could give him solid, but still part-time, hours so he could be there for Sherlock and Katie Rose as much as possible. They stayed at Baker Street.

Katie Rose started school a year early, the smartest and most curious child in her class, of course. When asked if she wanted ballet or music classes, she expressed her very strong interest in gymnastics and was signed up immediately. And when the time came to choose whether to further train for an Olympics spot, their girl decided she’d preferred brains over brawn, passed her GSCEs at sixteen, and went off to Oxford to read library science.

Throughout the challenges of parenthood—skinned knees, mean teachers, boyfriends and girlfriends and best friends, curfews and fights—John and Sherlock remained steadfastly in love and loyal to each other. They had their own fights and skinned knees (or more like a broken ankle and stab wound, one to each man on a couple of the more exciting cases they still managed to stumble upon). They disagreed over house rules, they made bad choices, there was even a month when they didn’t talk while Sherlock was off in Norway solving a case that happened to coincide with one of their bigger rows. But they were happy to have love, laughter, heartache, and pain, as long as they had it together, with their girl and with their friends.

Mrs. Hudson passed on—peacefully, in her sleep—leaving the whole of 221 Baker Street to John and Sherlock. Mycroft followed—government assassin, no completely shocking—a few years later. Greg remarried, retired, and moved out to the country. Molly married a nice but boring man, had a son just a few years younger than Katie Rose, decided the man wasn’t for her, and finally found her love match in a rising detective at the Met called Stella. They adopted two more children and a multitude of family pets. In later years, Molly and Sherlock had quite the competition going over most amazing grandchildren. Katie Rose’s (“Just Kate these days, Dad”) twins were far superior to Molly’s own brood of five grandchildren, but Sherlock admitted he could be slightly biased. Jamie wanted to study pathology, despite Sherlock’s insistence that forensics was more interesting than Aunt Molly’s field, but Jamie wouldn’t be swayed. She had John’s stubborn nature down to a T. Mina wanted to follow her dad and grandad into general medicine, but even at sixteen, but she wasn’t as single-minded as her sister and was likely to change her mind.

John and Sherlock moved to Sussex—first a cottage of their own, then an assisted living community after Sherlock’s suffered a fall and broke his arm. Kate, her husband Kyle, and the twins visited frequently, and there were even a few blended family reunions with Molly’s and Greg’s broods.

When a representative from ALI Tech came to speak with the community about a new technology in beta, Sherlock felt the jolt of familiarity that had become a much less frequent companion after Kate’s birth. He and John went to listen, and as the man explained the technology, Sherlock and John shared a look of dawning realization. They left the talk stunned and headed back to their rooms.

\---

“We did that, didn’t we?” John asked after they’d settled on the couch with calming cups of tea. “That’s…that’s _this_. That’s _us_. That’s _now_. Isn’t it? We’re… in the matrix.”

Sherlock remembered that ridiculous movie. Couldn’t deny he’d compared his feelings to it from time to time. It was a bit scary, though, realizing you were actually living it. Sherlock took John’s free hand to steady them both. “I believe so. We are, as they say, just lines of computer code. Or, you and I are real, like the characters in the film, but we’re interacting with a computer program, though one that is hopefully far more benevolent.”

“So our whole lives were a lie. None of it happened.”

Sherlock saw the shock growing on his partner’s face. He wanted to stop it. “Well, we did apparently live different lives—though I can’t remember the old ones—but the choices we made during this life were real enough, even though the circumstances were likely changed from what we… originally lived through.”

“But _why_? What reason would we have for doing this? What could have possibly happened that made us want to relive our _entire_ lives? And to spend the time and money coming up with the technology, because this is obviously far beyond what that rep was selling. How far back do our fake lives go? Is any of it real? Are _you_ real? Maybe this is just my projection, and I never met you–” John’s voice broke, and he shuddered, curling in on himself.

“John.” Sherlock put down his tea, and placed his free hand on John’s cheek. “Look at me.” John looked up from his lap, his eyes filled with worry and tears. “I remember making this decision too. I remember creating the technology, I don’t know how far back we went, but I know we’re both real, okay? We made this decision _together_. I don’t know why, but we decided, together, that a redo was worth it. Maybe we just loved it so much we wanted to live it over, exactly the same. Maybe we made bad choices early on, and our lives spun out of control, and this was us course correcting. Maybe life threw some really awful shit our way, and we wanted to take back control. Whatever the case, we did it _together_. We had a good life. We’re happy, and we’re loved. Nothing else matters.”

John put his hand over Sherlock’s, breathed deep, and nodded. “Okay. I believe you.”

“And you’re okay?”

“I will be, I think.”

\---

They woke in their bed, which had several unfamiliar faces crowded around it.

“We’re back, aren’t we?” Sherlock asked, lying next to John.

Back? Oh yes, the matrix thing. John’s stomach churned. He still was uneasy that they had apparently felt the need to relive their lives. Though, if they really were awake, they could at least ask why.

The woman hovering over them was unfamiliar, but she was obviously a doctor. Probably there to monitor their vitals. “How long were we out?” he asked her as she removed various sticky things from his head.

“Four and half hours. How long were _you_ out?”

John understood the question, though he didn’t have an answer. He looked at Sherlock, who spoke up.

“We’re not certain. We were the age we appear to be now, and living in the same place, from the looks of it, but we’re not sure of the entry point. It was fairly seamless.”

The tech guy pulling matching sticky things off of Sherlock looked up in interest. “There was no obvious moment where things felt different? Looked different? Did you remember that you were in a computer program?”

“Not until the end, though there were moments throughout that felt like déjà vu,” Sherlock answered. “Really, really strong déjà vu.”

“Do you remember much of what happened in the program?” the young man asked, fetching his tablet to take notes.

John took this one. “As much as one remembers of an 80-plus-year life.” He shrugged. “It all felt real, though. Like we said, it wasn’t until moments before the simulation ended that we realized we were in a computer program.”

“So you remember nothing of your real lives?”

“These were our real–”

“Evan,” the doctor interrupted. “Let’s let these men rest. You can question them later.”

“But what if they’re about to–”

The doctor interrupted his question with a glare, but John knew what the young man was worried about. What if they died soon? The technology was fatal, after all. Unless the real version had surpassed what they’d been told in their fake(?) life.

“They’re fine for now. Give them a few hours to rest and process.”

The doctor clucked around them a while longer, taking more readings and jotting notes down on her tablet. She finally left them alone, garnering promises that they’d move no further away than their rooms, and only walk when necessary. There would be further tests in a few hours.

As they settled back to rest, they each had a ping signaling a new email. Sherlock leaned closer to read over John’s shoulder. Though the email was from a Rosie Barlow (Kyle’s last name), the ID was accompanied by a picture of their own Kate, who had kept the Holmes-Watson moniker upon marriage. The first of many differences? John looked over at Sherlock’s own concerned face before opening the missive.

 _Dear Dad and Sherlock_ , it began. Difference number two. John would have to stop counting, otherwise he might get too upset, and who knew what that could do to his already overworked brain. He took a deep breath and read on.

_I’ve just received word from Doctor Levi that you’re awake and resting peacefully. I’m relieved you’re doing well, and hope you won’t mind a visit tomorrow._

_I don’t know if you remember who I am, or if you even care, but knowing you both as I do, if the life you’ve been living doesn’t match up with what you were just told, you’ll want answers. Why you chose to perform the experiment, what your other lives were like, everything. Attached is an account of your lives as I, the daughter of John, know them, with some links to archives of Dad’s blog and a few news articles. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock has written up an account as well, but I wanted to be on the safe side, and I also wanted to tell the story as I saw it. I’ll warn you now, your lives were not always easy. A lot of bad things happened, not all of which I’m privy to, but I want you to also know that there was a lot of love and happiness along the way. You are two of the most amazing men I’ve ever met, and I’m proud to call you family. Read my account, and any others, if you wish, but know once again that Kyle, the kids, and I don’t begrudge you your decision. We only ever wanted you to be happy. We hope that you had a good second life, and that when the end comes, you are at peace._

_With all my love,_

_Rosamund Mary Watson Barlow_

They read Kate’s/Rosie’s account, the blogs, the news articles, and Sherlock and John’s own letters to each other and to themselves that explained why they had chosen to do this. John couldn’t believe that most of it had really happened, it seemed more like something you’d see on television, rather than real life.

But apparently he had kept his distance upon Sherlock’s return, married an assassin, allowed that assassin to shoot the love of his life, had his lying wife jump in front of a bullet for Sherlock, and so many other implausible things. Not to mention, he had spent all but a very tiny portion of his life apart from the man he had always loved more than life itself. That was the idea he really couldn’t wrap his mind around. He had ostensibly chosen to shun Sherlock, first by marrying someone else, then by running away from him after he had apparently tried to beat the man to death. No wonder he’d wanted a re-do.

He would have gone deep into self-flagellation mode then if he didn’t finish his review of his real(?) life with a letter from Sherlock to John.

_John,_

_I know what you’re thinking. Stop it now. I love you. I always have, and I always will. Life was not kind to us, but we did with it the best we could. We’ve been given this chance to make a few changes, but know that if it doesn’t work, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret meeting or falling in love with you. You are the best thing that could ever happen to me, and I will die a thousand deaths before I let anyone take it away from me. I hope our experience was able to replace a few memories, for I never want to see you suffering, but as long as I have your love and your happiness now, that’s all that matters._

_Your Sherlock_

John must have written something similar—though undoubtedly less poetic and beautiful—for John looked at Sherlock to see eyes full of tears and a face full of love.

And John felt at peace. They had had shit lives, but they’d also been given the chance to change that, and they’d grabbed the opportunity with both hands and run with it. They had got what few others could ever boast, two lives lived, several moments of falling in love, and the happy memories of a life well spent.

“You okay?” Sherlock asked, pulling John with him to lie back on the bed.

“Yeah, I am,” John replied softly, pulling himself closer to Sherlock’s side. Even after forty-plus years, there was no better place to be. “You?”

“Perfect.” Sherlock leaned in and kissed John. “It was a good choice, we had a good life. And you were with me for it all.”

John kissed Sherlock back and burrowed into his side, breathing him in.

There would be tests and questions, a slightly confusing visit with their family, more goodbyes, and then… the end. John didn’t regret it. He was happy. He was with the man who meant the most to him in all the world, and that was all he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumbler [@vateacancameos](http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/). Come talk to me about SF AUs or just shoot me a howdy. Hope you enjoyed my little story! Comments give me squishy feelings.


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